


tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us

by wonderwall_mp4



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Abimel, Character Study, F/F, Inspired by Richard Siken, OverWitch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25215811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderwall_mp4/pseuds/wonderwall_mp4
Summary: a collection of abigael and mel based upon the works of siken.
Relationships: Abigael Jameson-Caine/Mel Vera
Comments: 5
Kudos: 19





	1. scheherazade

**Author's Note:**

> recently i've been thinking about crush, and how a lot of siken reminded me of abimel or something abigael might say, so i decided to write some shorts, each based on a poem. i don't know how many i'll write or when i'll update.
> 
> basically this is just a study in imagery and feelings, loosely held together by charmed characters. all of these will be 2 thousand words or less.
> 
> if you want me to explain something, or if you just want to tell me something you liked, comment! i adore reading comments and i try to respond to them as quickly as possible!
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> (my twitter is rulivya and my instagram is evechloes if you'd like to follow me. i'm not nearly as coherent there.)

Mel always looked beautiful in the golden light. Of course, Abigael thought she looked beautiful everywhere, but there was something about the early afternoon sun that lit Mel up seemingly from the inside, sun bleeding out from under her skin and casting rays on Abigael's face, bringing light to her too.

It was one of those days, a lazy Sunday, where heathens could sleep in until noon, a midday that tasted like lemonade and wind and hands and lips on cheeks. Mel had slouched into the kitchen, yawning widely, to find Abigael chopping fruit, and she popped an apple slice into her mouth and smiled, and Abigael grinned back at her, her best friend, her soulmate, the love of her life, although they only acknowledged one out loud. 

The apples were for a fruit salad, but Abigael didn’t have enough to make more than one serving. She handed the bowl to Mel as if she was going to make more, and Mel devoured it all before she realized there was none left. She expressed her regret but Abigael didn’t mind, she brushed it off, she would give anything, everything to her and didn't Mel know that by now? 

She did, but she still felt guilty.

A new song came on, an old favorite of Abigael’s that Mel didn't know, and Abigael extended her hand as an invitation. They went, side by side, into the living room, which glowed more burnished gold than the feeble rays through the tiny kitchen windows, and they rearranged furniture haphazardly to make a large space in the middle of the floor. Mel tucked her head into the crook of Abigael’s neck and they spun in time to the music, paving ruts in the carpet and smelling of fruit and comfort. Abigael was graceful in a clumsy way, and Mel was clumsy with grace, so they tripped and laughed and basked in each other’s presence as a shield from the world- it was so bright and shiny, and it could hurt your eyes if you weren’t careful. 

Abigael pressed kisses into her messy hair and against her ear as she whispered, just silly little things that she didn’t remember now, and they made Mel giggle. The thrum of her heartbeat so close to Abigael’s and the vibrations of her voice felt like live wires. In an instant, the sun darted through the window just so, dancing off of Mel’s pendant and catching in Abigael’s eyes, blinding her. 

What wouldn’t she give for that light now?

Abigael hadn’t opened the blinds since that day. She most likely never would again. Even the glaring, golden sun was a pale imitation of Mel’s light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "How we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days  
> were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple  
> to slice into pieces.  
> Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon, that means  
> we’re inconsolable.  
> Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
> These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
> Tell me we’ll never get used to it."  
> -richard siken, _scheherazade_


	2. unfinished duet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it ends suddenly. it should. even unfinished things can be beautiful. this is just slices of this version of mel and abigael's lives. you can finish them for yourself, or just let them drift away.

Mel flipped one chair, then another. She was starting to get the hang of it. The tiny diner, on the corner of Nothing Street and Nowhere Boulevard, had been owned by her uncle until he passed just the Friday before, heart complications (she knew the feeling), and with her sisters off doing their own things, she had been the only one willing to take over his post. The upstairs had been converted from one room into two, a storage room and a small bedroom that was still filled with Mateo Vera’s things.

It was her first day. She was the only one working, she would continue to be the only one until her shift ended at 2 PM, when the diner closed. She didn’t mind, though; she was a pretty good chef, and as far as she knew, barely anyone came through anyways, except for the odd trucker on their way to some greater destiny.

_ That’s what this place is, _ thought Mel.  _ A pit stop on my way to the future. _

It was 5:15 now. Mel didn’t mind getting up early, she liked the silence. She flipped the sign in the door over to  _ Open _ and went back to opening chairs, before meandering back behind the counter, watching the sun slowly rise over the red sand, and waiting for customers.

People trickled in. A group of caravaning truck drivers laughing. A quiet old farmer who only bought a newspaper and a coffee. Mel was friendly to them, but they all went about their business. Around 6:30, in walked the most beautiful girl Mel had ever seen, a goddess in a black trench coat and impossibly high heels, with glittery shadow and dark eyeliner framing golden hazel eyes. She stopped at the counter, doing a double take.

“You’re not Mateo.”

“Good observation skills,” said Mel. The woman raised a perfect eyebrow. “Actually, he passed. I’m his niece, I own this place now.”

She sat down hard on one of the barstools, brow furrowing. “He’s dead? He seemed just fine when I was here last.”

“It was sudden. But he didn’t suffer, and his life was long,” said Mel. 

“My condolences,” the woman said, sounding like she really meant it. It was surprising how many people used those words emptily. “He was a good man. A kind, charitable soul. He didn’t judge.”

“That’s true. I didn’t know him well, though.”

The woman gestured to her. “And yet, you’re running his diner…” she glanced at Mel’s name tag. “Mel.” Mel’s breath caught in her throat, hearing her name from the stranger’s lips.

“My sisters were busy, and he doesn’t- didn’t- have any kids of his own. I needed the money anyway,” said Mel. “Do you come here often?”

“Every day before work,” the woman responded. 

“Nice to meet you, then…” Mel looked at her promptingly.

“Abigael,” she said, reaching out to shake Mel’s hand. It was calloused and hard, which surprised Mel- the rest of her looked so soft.

The next day, around 6:30- exactly at 6:30, actually, Mel noted- Abigael appeared again; same coat, different heels, and the same order (vegetarian omelette, half a grapefruit, and a cup of tea- milk, no sugar).

“Do you live around here?” Mel asked, taking a cloth to the counter.

“It’s on my way,” she said mysteriously.

Wednesday, same thing, but with rain. At 6:30, Abigael came waltzing with a rush of sleet, still bare-legged and heeled with the same trench coat. She slid into her usual seat, gleaming water droplets and, in turn, before she could say a word, Mel slid her order across the table to her. She was rewarded with a beaming smile.

“Mel, you’re a wonderful chef, you know,” Abigael commented as she dug into her omelette.

“So what do you do for a living?” asked Mel.

Abigael looked at her solemnly. “Are you the type to judge someone based on their profession?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Abigael unbuttoned the top of her coat and exposed her torso. She was wearing a sort of glittery halter that went barely below her ribs. Mel took it in, thought about what she’d said about judging people based on their job.

“You’re a stripper,” said Mel.

Abigael leaned against the counter. “So? I’m a stripper. Does that bother you?” 

“No,” said Mel. “I’ve never met a cruel stripper. Mostly they’re just cynical and sad, which is understandable.”

“Cynical, I am that,” Abigael said. “But do I look sad?”

Mel peered at her. “A little bit. You hide it well.”

Abigael smiled, as if Mel had passed a test. “I shall take that as a compliment.” She returned to her food, and Mel tore herself away from Abigael’s angular visage to go serve the old farmer, who was clamoring for another cup of coffee.

They went on like that for weeks, falling into their own little pattern. The weekends felt emptier without Abigael turning up for her breakfast and tea, but after the second weekend, she started coming on Saturdays and Sundays too.

“The truth is, Mel, I like having someone to talk to. You just happen to be the unlucky one who has to listen,” she joked as she sat down. Instead of her trench coat, she was wearing a suit and thick-soled boots, and her makeup was much less flashy. 

“Not working today?”

“I only work weekdays. This is me in my natural state.” Abigael gestured down at herself. “Like what you see?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. You look great,” stammered Mel. 

Week after week, for about two months, Abigael kept coming, and Mel was always there to greet her. She would come in, eat, talk to Mel for precisely an hour, then say “Well, I’d best be going!”, set down a twenty (five more dollars than her meal cost, but she’d never accept change) and leave as fast as she’d arrived. Mel began to settle into the routine, even learning what Abigael’s favorite song was and putting it on the jukebox.

All that time, Mel tried to muster up the courage to ask Abigael to go somewhere other than the diner. The day she decided to do it was just an ordinary Tuesday. The day before Abigael had touched her hand, just a slight brush when she was smiling. 

What an odd connection they had. They talked often, but really they knew nothing about each other at all. Abigael referred to it as ‘the intimacy of strangers’. “You see, it’s a paradox, Mel,” Abigael said, sipping grapefruit juice from a spoon delicately. She liked including Mel’s name every time she addressed her. “Sharing everything with someone you don’t know is cathartic. It’s much easier than telling someone you know your problems and letting them judge. But as you share with a stranger, then you come to know each other, and you’re friends whether you intended to be or not.”

“And that’s us?” asked Mel.

“That’s us,” she confirmed.

“So what you’re saying is, you consider us friends?” Mel said.

Abigael only smiled in response.

And Mel decided that the next day she would risk it.

But the next day, Abigael didn’t come. 

Mel sat at the counter, watching as Abigael’s omelette slowly stopped steaming and the milk began to separate from the tea. Abigael had never been late before, and Mel worried that something had happened to her. Her overactive imagination got the best of her, and she began to feel anxiety creep up on her, wailing like a siren.

When it was time for Mel to clean up and close down, she made a hasty job of it and instead headed out back to start up her car. Occasionally she made the 3-mile trip into town to buy groceries, to see a show, or to visit her friends and her sisters, but other than that, the car didn’t get much use. She headed into the small town, her destination the only strip joint for miles in any direction.

The interior was dark, and somehow smoky, and neon lights blazed from above. Mel could almost taste them, like they were sticky sweet. It was surprisingly quiet, but to be fair it was 3 PM on a Tuesday. Two girls danced on poles to lowly thumping bass music. The girl in front wasn’t Abigael, but she was talented and she winked at Mel, so Mel tossed her a ten in good spirits. But she recognized Abigael’s shoulder-length brunette hair swishing as she swung around her pole and hoisted herself up. A sense of palpable relief filled Mel. She was alright. So why hadn’t she come to breakfast?

Mel slid into a chair. Her stomach turned at the sight of the men staring up at Abigael, throwing bills, cheering, all but salivating. Who were they to look at her like she was theirs to own?

Abigael came down to the lip of the stage, charmingly, brisk and full of grace as if she floated on a storm cloud, and the patrons tucked money into her clothes, greedy hands everywhere, and Mel shouldered her way forward with a twenty, the same twenty that she’d bought her breakfast with the day before. The two of them locked eyes, a spark passed between them, and Abigael only let her confusion show on her face for a millisecond before taking the twenty and tucking it into her bra.

She danced for the rest of the song, stubbornly refusing to make eye contact with Mel, and exited the stage to clapping and an announcer’s sultry voice murmuring, “Thank you for that incredible performance, Black Velvet.”

“Black Velvet. Like the whiskey,” Mel commented as Abigael walked over, her heels making tiny gunshots on the concrete.

“What the hell are you doing here?” hissed Abigael. “I’m working.”

Mel suddenly felt shy. “You didn’t come in today. I got kinda worried.”

Abigael took her arm, and Mel felt the bite of her long nails as she dragged her into a back room. “Intimacy of strangers, remember?” 

“What does that have to do with you not coming to breakfast?”

“You weren’t a stranger to me anymore,” said Abigael. 

“And why is that so awful?”

“People like me, we don’t do attachments,” Abigael said, as if it were obvious. “When someone knows too much about me, they tend to leave, it’s better if I leave first.”

“What, you think I’d sell the diner just to get away from you?” Mel said. It was a ridiculous notion, but Abigael seemed deadly serious.

“You ask too many questions,” said Abigael.

“Then why do you answer?”

“I don’t know,” Abigael shot back. “Why do you care so much?” She turned to leave, but Mel took her by the arm and pulled her in. 

Mel kissed her, and all of the questions fell from her mind like rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there were other attempts, breakfasts:  
> plates served, plates carried away.  
>  _He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.  
> _ He likes the feel of the coffeepot.  
>  _More than the hacksaw?_ Yes, and  
> he likes flipping the chairs,  
> watching them fill with people. He likes  
> the orange juice and toast of it, and waxed  
> floors in any light. _He wants to be tender  
>  and merciful._ That sounds overly valorous.  
>  _Sounds like penance. And his hands?_  
>  His hands keep turning into birds and  
> flying away from him. _Him being you._  
>  Yes. _Do you love yourself?_ I don’t have to  
> answer that. _It should matter._  
>  -richard siken, _unfinished duet_


End file.
